


what tenderness in his voice, what fervor

by forest_creatures



Series: how shall i hold back my soul from touching yours [3]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: F/M, Improper Use of Vampire Senses, Intimacy, Mutual Masturbation, Overstimulation, Porn with Feelings, Soooo much feeling, Tenderness, good lord what am I doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:13:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29420664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forest_creatures/pseuds/forest_creatures
Summary: Everything, she could say, and it would not be a lie. I’ll give you everything.--Or: Nate leaves her unmade.
Relationships: Female Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: how shall i hold back my soul from touching yours [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148186
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	what tenderness in his voice, what fervor

**Author's Note:**

> ............... so, happy valentine's day. have I written smut before or ever felt the need to write it before? no. am I here anyways? yes. Nate Sewell's impact.

“I thought of you,” Amaia confesses, her tongue loosened from the heat, the time already spent together, all gentle exploration and lulling tenderness. Hair slicks to her brow, and she is breathless, still. Aching and vulnerable in the low light. “Before.” 

Nate kneels above her, a man open, a man undone; his hair mused, his skin glistening with a soft sheen of sweat, his eyes sea-dark, heavy enough to drown in. He follows the shuddering outline of her, all splayed out and open, before finding her gaze once more.

“I hope so,” he smiles, a half-formed thing. “You seem to have become my every thought. If I occupied even a sliver of your mind, I could be quite happy.”

She stretches out. “No— I mean, yes. Yes, of course,” his hand caresses up her calf, massaging. “All the time. But...”

Mouth dry, she swallows hard, and she knows he can feel it; her want of him, her flushing, flaring heart, tattooing his name to the inside of her ribs.

He squeezes, encouraging, and slides his hand further up, into the bend of her knee, fingers tucked against the soft skin there. “But...” a gentle pull of his hand, more a request—like they haven’t spent hours here, _hours,_ his fingers a cartographer’s as he takes his time, charting the plains of her body, notching the knobs of her spine and the crevices of her thighs—and her legs fall open, her lungs hitch. “What did you think of?”

“You,” she sighs, hips stuttering as his long fingers spread out across her thigh, fanning the embers under her skin, “this.” 

“This?” Nate hums, a long smile curling at his mouth—perhaps a little teasing, as if to say that they had wasted so much time, hadn’t they? 

(Her pushing and pulling and waiting, when she could have had him, open and warm.)

Or maybe she imagines it, maybe it is simply her own thoughts, reflected back.

Nate leans forward, pressing a kiss to the side of her knee, the soft skin of her lower thigh. _So_ much time wasted, she thinks, and gasps at the slight nip of his teeth, more pressure than sting, and the grin that follows. Delighting, no doubt, in this strange new vulnerability she places before him. “Us?”

_He is—_

An open kiss, further down her thigh, still bent and upright, “like this?” 

_—Wonderful._ And terrifying, in what he can inspire from her.

She blushes, this time from a yank of self-consciousness, and covers her eyes with her forearm, looking away from him and his lovely face, grinning up at her—disarming, and she fumbles in the aftermath.

A low, deep chuckle meets her ears, and she feels him move, feels the bed dip under his weight until his free hand—the other leaves her thigh, sets near her head—wraps around her wrist gently, forcing her back into view. “Please, don’t,” he kisses her palm, her curving wrist. “I want to see you.”

“I want to know you, down to the bone,” he turns her hand over, more kisses; the juts of her knuckles, the thin skin between her thumb and forefinger, and she exhales. “Whatever you would give me.” 

He tucks her hand to his chest, where his heart beats, just as fast as hers, wearing a smile so wide and unrestrained in its warmth that it splits her open. _Everything,_ she could say, and it would not be a lie. _I’ll give you everything._

“And I want you…” he releases her, leaning forward to take her mouth instead, a ghost of a kiss, leaving her wanting. “To think of me. Often, and without shame, as I think of you.”

A kiss in full, an ocean swallowing her down, down, down into the depths of him—and how could she think of anything else? He’s stained her, heart and soul. 

Their bodies press, damp and hot with sweat from before; she could sink, so easily. Heady, head-spinning, all coherent thought flees in the face of how deeply she wants, lungs full, mouth sticky with his taste. 

She cradles him between her thighs, one hand snaking into his hyacinthine hair, the other cupping his jaw. There are words itching to climb from her mouth, things she wants to say, desperate to say, but they smack between her gums, cling to the back of her throat—and so she kisses him, long and slow and burning.

Nate groans into it, and she shivers, her tongue sliding to meet his, to draw more of those sounds from him. She kisses until her lungs burn, pulling away with a ragged breath of his name.

Undeterred, he follows the soft line of her jaw with his mouth, leaving wet, open kisses as he goes. From her jaw to the tender spot behind her ear, to suck her earlobe into his mouth and bite down ever so gently. She squirms under him, ankles locking at the base of his spine. 

Arching, she rocks her hips into his until he gasps— _“Amaia,”_ guttural with need—his free hand trailing a path of fire down her side, cupping her breast and flicking his thumb across the sensitive bud. 

He jerks, hipbones knocking into her, bringing them closer, closer, her stomach clenching sharply, and she shudders, pulls back enough to watch his face—mouth open, slick from her kisses, eyes liquidy. Beautiful.

A caress down her side, to the flare of her hips. “Will you tell me,” he murmurs, his nose brushing hers, his hot breath fanning over her lips, “what you thought of?” 

Words. He excels at them, and she always finds herself faltering to put shape to the feeling swirling brutally under her skin. “I…” 

_He’s— it is—_ her jaw works, trying to find the ability to match him, word for word. The silence lasts only a few seconds, but he absolves her as quickly as he asks, nudging their noses together, flattering another kiss to her lips, her chin. “You don’t have—”

“I could—” she stops, feels her heartbeat leap into her throat, and he stills above her. “I could… show you. What I...” a shaky inhale, “what I did.”

“What you—” realization catches his brow, and a quiet noise, barely perceptible, passes from his mouth. “Please,” _please,_ and she shakes, the anticipation eating her alive. He pulls away, and for a split second she mourns the lost contact.

Amaia can feel it, her heart smacking in her chest, skin burning up, erupting in goosebumps. Unmade, _undone._

Nate watches her like a man starved, heavy with want as he looks her over; the heaving of her breasts to the trembling of her stomach, to the open set of her thighs, and he _darkens._

“Please, show me,” a breath of a groan, a hard swallow, and she stares just the same, unabashed; to the bobbing of his throat, down his broad chest, following a line of dark hair to where he strains, hard again.

 _Christ._ She’s never known desire like this, never wanted to be ruined, to ruin, so thoroughly before. To unravel him as much as he unravels her, take him apart _and—_

“I wanted it to be you,” she shivers, splaying one hand—so much smaller than his, impossible to compare now that she’s felt the weight of his palms on her skin—on her stomach, the other cupping her breast, squeezing lightly. She can’t keep his gaze, _too much._ He’ll set her ablaze, and her eyes shut as she slowly slides her hand down her body. “So many nights, I— I thought of what you might…” 

“What I might do?”

 _“Yes,”_ she hisses, pelvis jolting as her fingers slip—so wet, she is _so wet_ —down, light, and it would be teasing if she wasn’t so sensitive still, the slightest touch sending her spine into an arch, and he’s _watching,_ and it’s overwhelming, blistering. 

Eyes snapping open, Amaia drinks in the sight of him—his teeth sink deeply into his bottom lip, the pearly white peaking out, his gaze fixated where she begins to stroke, circling, not quite brushing her clit.

His hand twitches at his side, like he’s barely restrained, wants to take himself in hand, work himself to the sight of her, and _oh— that’s good,_ wet, sliding noises whispering beneath the sudden gasp that cuts from her mouth. 

She wants to rush, picking up the pace, and he grasps her thigh, the grip harder than before. His ring bites into the skin, a subtle sting.

She hopes it bruises.

“Slower,” he murmurs, the gentlest of commands. “Not yet.”

It aches, but she listens.

Nate’s mouth falls open. His other hand digs at his own thigh, almost, _almost_ there, and she forces herself to slow, to take her time, to savor this. 

“Good girl,” he says, and the soft praise sends her thoughts swimming.

 _“Oh,”_ her breath comes in faster, all harsh and low and rasping as she watches him—there, she shudders, some carnal viciousness tearing through her—watches him watch her _fuck herself._ She rocks into her own hand, desire rippling, spreading in quakes as she builds it up, dripping wet.

“Can I—” Nate rasps, his hand jerking at his hip, “can I—”

She nods, rapid and desperate, “please,” hushed as a beg, as a plea, and he strokes himself. They both gasp, her rhythm faltering. The hand at her thigh tightens.

 _He’s so beautiful._ If she could paint, she would waste years trying to capture him, just like this, hair askew and body shuddering and vivid, _alive_ with his desire. 

Nate works himself slowly— _anticipation,_ he’d said once, and she moans, canting into her drenched fingers—drags his thumb over the tip of his drooling head, slicking his strokes.

With her other hand, she makes circles around a stiffened nipple, touch uneven and stumbling as she chases the high. It comes in waves, blurring heat, and her head thrashes back, hair sticking to her lips. It’s burning and building and if she could just go a little _faster—_

“I’m not going to—” she arches, held down only by his hand, “Nate, please, let me—”

“Just a little more,” he pants, twisting his fist, strokes faster and harder, “you’re so close.” 

_He can feel it,_ her thoughts stall, shatter, a crescendo of _there, there, there,_ faster and faster, and it’s— _she can’t—_ she’s on fire, split open, torn down, struck and taut as a livewire. 

“There you are,” Nate breathes, and it _tears_ through her.

His name strangles her moan, all feeling and skin and wine-soaked fire, and she loves him, she _loves_ him, it’ll eat her alive. It should terrify her, what she would do for him, and what she would lose for him. Nate. _Nate._

Head swimming, and it could be seconds or hours before she finally comes down, finds him watching her, strokes desperate and— _“come here, come here,”_ she reaches, taking his free hand in hers, pulling him to her. 

“I want you inside— please,” she beckons, and the sound he makes—like it was torn from him, violent with itself. He squeezes her hand, tight enough to throb.

He sinks into the cradle of her thighs, and she takes him into herself with a gasp, _full,_ sensitive enough that tears sting the corners of her eyes, shaking with him. Her other hand slides down his back, settles at the base. 

Meets each of his thrusts with her own, watches his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open, his lovely, lovely features twisting up. 

Nate groans, babbling slurred nonsense as he rocks into her, half poetry and half rambling. _I love you’s_ in a dozen languages as she wraps her hand into his hair, just enough to arch his head back, trail his neck with biting kisses. _Fuck—_ it’s building again, that coil of tension tighter and tighter in her stomach with every snap of his hips. 

He lets go of her hand to slide his own between them, thumbing at her clit in tight, sure circles, setting off shockwaves. _“Nate,”_ she breathes into his neck, biting down, and he groans, his next thrust hard enough to shake the bed. He changes the angle, and it sends a fresh wave of kaleidoscope colors across her vision.

She pulls him into one last kiss, swallowing his half-words down her throat as he brings her closer and closer—heat zipping up her back, spreading out to her fingertips, pressure, her skin too tight for her body, for all this _feeling,_ and—

Release. He carries her off the edge, into the abyss, and she comes again, hard and fast, shaking, clenching tightly around him— _want me down to the marrow,_ she feels delirious, and he murmurs: _yes, yes, yes._

Nate groans low in his chest. The scent of sweat and sex and heat, their skin sliding against each other, the sheets tangling around them, and she’s dizzy. She moans like a sob, crashing and colliding, nails digging into his back.

 _I love you,_ she thinks, or maybe says—drowned out as he takes her mouth again, parts her lips with his tongue; chasing his pleasure, unmade. The last of his control shatters as his thrusts become jerky, stumbling, that obscene poetry he spins around her lost as his forehead presses to hers, a silent moan breathed against her lips.

He spills into her, pulsating, trembling, and she rocks him through it, canting her hips to take him all the way. 

Nate tries, weakly, to keep his weight off her, his breathing heavy, leaning on his elbows until she insists. He’s slumped and shuddering above her, beautiful, and she pulls him fully flush to her chest. It doesn’t matter that she can’t quite breathe; she couldn’t before, and he is so delightfully _warm,_ and she is still so _full._

It’s never felt this way before, never so full of beating heart, mouthful of love. The world could stop and she wouldn’t mind, so long as she could keep him here, like this.

Cheek to cheek, she slides lazy, pleased kisses to his jaw, his cheekbone, anywhere she can reach, drawing a sated sigh from him. Trailing kisses down, she settles at his pulse, leaping under his skin, eyes closed. 

The world sinks into a hazy blur of skin; the press of his chest, tight against hers as he breathes, the salt of his sweat on her tongue, the delicious drag as he pulls out, slowly, and the feeling of his lips on her temple, her forehead.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs in her ear, and she protests quietly, clinging to his hand for a moment as he climbs off, chuckles, the bed digging under his weight. Her eyes slide closed, feeling floating and limbless, her entire body loose with exhaustion tugging at the back of her mind. She’ll get up in a moment, when it’s not so dizzy.

She might fall asleep, or maybe she simply drifts, floating in and out of awareness until he returns, gently parting her legs to wipe away the mess—and she jolts, slightly, at the touch, overstimulated and tingling. 

He slides again next to her, over the sheets (halfway kicked off the bed now, and neither makes a move to retrieve them) his long arms curling over her, pulling her flush. He murmurs something, quiet enough that she can’t quite hear, before tracing light kisses over the shell of her ear, the tangled mass of her hair.

She does get up, eventually, stumbling into the bathroom; tugs on the first piece of clothing she can grab—one of his shirts, long enough to reach her thigh—returns to find him wearing pajama pants and a lazy smile, his arms opening to catch her when she climbs back onto the bed, pulling her into his chest.

Several minutes pass like this: her head over his heart, lulled by the rhythm of it, his fingers running through all her long, long hair, limbs tangled together. Eventually, he says, “how do you feel?” drawing her out of that drowsy state.

“Good,” better than good. She could spend days here, just _him, him, him_ and nothing between them, nothing at all. There are so many things to say, but she can’t quite get the words right, so instead she squeezes him, tucks her face into his neck. “You?”

Nate laughs, drawing back enough to catch her eyes, his own glittering. “I am…” a pause, a slight dip in his brow, as if he can’t get the words right either, even as the smile lingers, “...unreasonably happy. You are… this is…” 

Nathaniel Sewell, at a loss for words. She knows, she _knows,_ and leans up, kissing him lightly—tender and soft and loving, in love—and he smiles into it. Her chest swells up, bursting.

“I know,” she whispers against his lips, “I feel it too.”

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr @forestcreatures.


End file.
